The Terror Of The Beard
by whatthefoucault
Summary: Set sometime in season 6B; Jamie and the Doctor have a little disagreement. Fluff ensues.


"Absolutely not, Doctor," declared a perturbed Jamie McCrimmon, who stood cross-armed in the bathroom doorway.

"Oh come now, Jamie," reasoned the Doctor, admiring his four days' growth in the mirror, "it makes me look rather... bohemian, don't you think?"

"Only if 'bohemian' is another word for 'itchy,'" grimaced Jamie, stomping grumpily into the room. "I've told you: you shave, then I'll kiss you again. Those are my terms and I'm sticking to them."

The Doctor, much to Jamie's huffing annoyance, had ostensibly come to the conclusion that it would be absolutely fascinating to see how his present face looked with a beard, no doubt the result of the relative boredom that arose from a two-week peaceful slump, wherein - apart from the evening the oven's fuse blew, collapsing their lemon souffle and sending bits of exploded crockery flying past at tremendous speed - they had encountered no crazed scientists, no deadly plant infestations, no giant homicidal hummingbirds, not even a particularly ornery ostrich. This beard, however, thought Jamie, was not an acceptable way for the Doctor to keep himself entertained. It was an abomination, and needed to be stopped.

"Itchy?" protested the Doctor, adjusting the towel around his waist. "I think it's rather dignified!"

"Aye, well, you're not the one who's nearly come out in a rash every time we've had to do a wee safety cling since you stopped shaving," countered Jamie.

"Oh, you'll get used to it. I think you might even grow to like it if you gave it a chance," dismissed the Doctor.

"But Doctor – "

"Now Jamie, you know I love you very much, but my face is my own," the Doctor said sternly. "I won't have you or anyone else amending it willy-nilly. I'm afraid my position on this remains unchanged."

"Then so does mine. In fact," resolved Jamie, retrieving the Doctor's razor from beside the sink, "if you don't shave off that… that face-beastie yourself, I will."

The Doctor's eyes widened. "You wouldn't dare," he whispered.

"Just watch me," replied Jamie, defiant and bold, razor in hand.

Jamie and the Doctor stared in a standoff of stubborn defiance for what felt like an eternity. The Doctor crossed his arms, but Jamie, brandishing his razor, was not about to back down. Just then, the Doctor sidestepped him, attempting to run from the room. Jamie followed swiftly, blocking his escape. They circled the room like that, stepping and sidestepping and stepping again, in an endless staring contest the likes of which the TARDIS had not seen for some time. Finally, Jamie steeled his nerves and stepped in closer and closer still, until the Doctor found himself pinned against the edge of the sink: nowhere to go, he shrugged his defeat.

The Doctor sighed. "All right, Jamie," he acquiesced, "if it means that much to you, go ahead."

Jamie hesitated a moment. Perhaps it was not his place to have said anything in the first place. Granted, the Doctor did look rather like a failed space-lumberjack in that wretched thing, but he was still the Doctor, Jamie's beloved Doctor, and still certainly sexy underneath that unfortunate layer of scruff. It was, after all, but a little thing.

"Oh, I don't know what's got into me," he said quietly, gazing sheepishly downwards at his feet. "You should keep the beard if you want to. I know you're fond of it."

"Yes, but I'm rather more fond of you," smiled the Doctor. "Besides, it _is_ getting a bit itchy."

"Oh, is it now," said Jamie. "Well then."

The Doctor closed his eyes, and seemed to lean slightly into the warm washcloth Jamie had pressed to his cheek, which carried with it the faint scent of that bright soap of his, spicy and familiar like warm honey and pepper, that always left a trace so quiet, like a secret message only they shared, a comforting knowledge.

In the years since they had begun their travels together, the Doctor's body had become almost as familiar to him as his own: countless sleepless nights were spent tending to each other's various flesh wounds after skirmishes with endless beasties, this monster or that, or the two of them against a gang of idiots, armed with hubris and whose overgrown weapons stood in inverse proportion to their underdeveloped common sense; or other nights, quieter, spent fumbling together in the dark under familiar blankets or unknown stars, or sometimes impatiently on the console room floor, all hands and limbs and breath and whispered declarations of perfect love, sometimes spoken and sometimes understood, or sometimes shouted as they came, then collapsing together, spent and breathless, a kiss, then sleep. And so, as the Doctor stood before him, face half-concealed by soap and otherwise bare – save for that polka-dot bath towel fastened around his waist – it was with great tenderness that Jamie set about his task.

A few swipes of the blade and it was done, really: the Doctor remained patiently still, and Jamie thought he could see the trace of a blushing smile as he gently placed two fingertips against the Doctor's chin, turning him one way, then the other, the warm, soapy water dripping slightly down his arm, soaking his linen shirt sleeve.

Jamie felt a little swell of pride at his handiwork: unencumbered by that ridiculous beard, the Doctor was the most beautiful person he had ever known.

"There," he declared triumphantly.

"Well, how do I look?" asked the Doctor.

"You look like a beatnik from space wearing a polka dot bath towel," said Jamie.

"Splendid," beamed the Doctor, clasping his hands in delight.

"Much better," agreed Jamie. "It's nice to see your face again, Doctor."

"Well, thank you for saying so," blushed the Doctor. "I don't suppose this means we might - "

It was then, at long last and mid-sentence, that Jamie brought his lips to meet the Doctor's, and sighed with happiness. The Doctor smiled, and Jamie could not help but do the same. He could feel the weight of the Doctor's arms round his waist, drawing him in. The Doctor hummed in approval as Jamie placed a trail of soft kisses along his jawline, caressing his shoulders. It felt like the first break of sunshine after an overcast Scottish winter. By the time they broke apart, Jamie resting his head on the Doctor's shoulder, the Doctor gently stroking his arm, any animosity that may have come between them was long forgotten.

"Oh my word, your arm's positively soaked!" exclaimed the Doctor suddenly, prodding at Jamie's dampened sleeve. "This simply will not do! Best get you out of that shirt before you catch a chill, Jamie."

"Oh aye, quite right Doctor," agreed Jamie, as the pair made a hasty retreat to the bedroom.


End file.
